


Dante & Wackafella: La Divina Tragedia

by allegroN



Category: Confessions - Saint Augustine, La Divina Commedia | The Divine Comedy - Dante Alighieri
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28891374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allegroN/pseuds/allegroN
Summary: What happens when the richest, most soulless oil tycoon meets God's most virtuous writer from above, and who can change the other first?





	1. Downfall

CHAPTER I - Downfalls

* * *

Crooked Wackafella, the hoarder of oil strikes again. This Signore inhabits all the tenets of privilege; he’s rich, he’s white, he’s male, and he’s living in the 1890’s. The young tycoon goes by the name Andy with his closest of friends, but when it’s time for drilling business, all you’ll hear is Anderson Wackafella. He’s sitting in the big chair inside a ventilated room, dressed with small pouches of ice to combat the harsh summer spell in southwest America. He’s got on his hands a small golden thimble that he likes to keep inside his left pocket; they say it gives him luck to earn those daily banks of wealth. As he’s fidgeting with the shiny thimble, an oil-soaked worker hurriedly knocks on the door begging for him to open it. His entire body jolts, waking him from the half-asleep bliss that he once had, and runs to question the filthy worker. 

The worker, gasping out of breath, could only point towards the oil pump. “Crash!” he muttered. Wackafella understood what he said, but could not stop paying attention to the dark stained fingerprints the worker left on his once white-coated door frame. “All right, boy. I’ll take a look into it in a second. ” said Wackafella. “I seem to have dropped my thimble somewhere...”

The already exhausted worker had nothing left to do but grab Wackafella’s arm with his greasy hands to alert him. “There’s no time, people are dying.” Wackafella immediately took on a half-irritated-half-disgusted look, as if he was being questioned on his decision making skills by who he deems an illiterate. “Don’t touch me! I beg your pardon!” exclaimed Wackafella in an angry voice only to be dumbfounded when the worker pulled him outside to show what was developing behind his eyes. The oil drill that he had invested so much into, had suddenly started sinking into the ground. Something that has never happened to Wackafella’s life before, a tarnish to his perfect record, it was as if an extension from his ego had suddenly erupted. Not believing what was happening in front of his eyes, he tried to run like a hungry piglet trying to save an oil rig the size of a barn all on his own.

It was all chaos. Workers on top of the rig start jumping from the forty feet tower as their only chance of survival, with many of those splattering straight to the ground only to be consumed by the growing sinkhole. On the bottom, it was like rats cowering from the light, with many of the workers shouting and stumbling onto each other, no longer knowing what direction was away. Amidst the fleeing though, you could see one rat nearing the light source, it was Wackafella; blinded by the sun and his own hubris, he believed that he could somehow save his precious rig all on his own, but alas Wackafella, you forgot to bring your golden thimble.

Wackafella, like the unfortunate workers, fell into the gaping sinkhole of oil. The summer sun no longer has any power on the fallen inhabitants, as the suspending dust from above puts a dark blanket signaling loss of hope. Ironically within the hole of no sight, Wackafella is starting to get a hold of his senses; he’s fully conscious about the fact that this might be his grave. Still, his individualistic voices tell him to survive at all costs, to take advantage of the people that are trapped with him. “Look for a sharp rock under the greasy rubble, one that may puncture their tendons,” his primal mind thought. “What about taking the role of the leader? These fools will follow anything with a top hat.” The capitalist then decided to make do of a bad situation, and try to meet with his remaining workers. 

There was one problem however, nobody was left. He did find bodies, but it was breathless corpses rather than his “narrow-minded obeyers”; in a way, the workers were more alive than ever. Wackafella also noticed something strange, he didn’t break a single bone from the mile drop fall! “A-ha! I am perfect after all! Take that, Mistress Fate!” exclaimed Wackafella, only to be echoed back to him by the walls of the hole. No one would hear anything below the hole, as not even the bravest would even dare to be near it. The idea of Wackafella reaching the top of the hole was equally preposterous; it would take a divine intervention for it to happen.

Thinking that this is his end in the tar-covered pit, with no way to climb the black and slippery walls, a light suddenly appears in the distance. Filled with hope that there is somebody who he can take advantage of, he decides to seek it. It turns out that one of the workers who fell did survive after all, only that they were unconscious; the worker in question used his trusty cigarette lighter to make a beacon. As Wackafella approached the worker, he could hear the holder of the only light source to be screaming for help; it appears that he was impaled at the torso by a falling piece of the oil rig. 

“Are you alright-- Oh God you aren’t!” screamed Wackafella when he saw what had happened to the worker.

“Please-- help-- me--” the worker mutters as blood bubbles out of his face and oozes out his torso. The blood doesn’t mix with the oil, making the scene look even more disturbing.

“Sorry, but that rebar’s not getting out, and even then, you won’t be of any use.”

“Do-- Something-- I beg-- of you--” the worker says.

“Do something?” Wackafella retorted. He became slightly irritated that this worker thinks he could get out of his position. “What about this? Is this doing something?” he says as he plays with the rebar like a joystick.

“NO! PLEASE-- IT HURTS--” the worker cries out with his last might. His faint scream startled Wackafella back to a normal being, as he realized that under the black stain of the oil, that the worker wasn’t even an adult yet. He decides to leave the boy to bleed out.


	2. Uprising

Chapter II - Uprising

* * *

Here comes divine intervention. Dante, the author of the literary classic _Divina Comedia_ , was tasked by the Lord himself to be heaven’s documentarian. His last works were a great in-depth look on what happens behind the ethereal scenes, but God wants more. He wants another book. It doesn’t have to beat the Bible, but it better be beautiful. Dante, not wanting to disappoint the Holy Trinity, decided to wait until he finds the perfect mortal to do his second documentary. God decides to give Dante some angelic powers, and even a single use power that can save his chosen subject, the catch however is if he decides to use that saving grace, he is forever locked into making his novel about the one who received the divination.

Why Wackafella? Even Dante argued with himself about this, why would he make a story about a man so vile? This man has exploited more than half of America’s population at the age of 28, has contributed more environmental damage than every generation before him combined, and has done enough sins for his soul to be separated into each circle of hell. In fact, he almost decided not to choose Wackafella and instead go for that Gandhi guy, but his instincts went into full motion because of what happened.

Had it not been for the sinkhole, and Wackafella’s perseverance to fall in it, Dante would have never consciously given him his single divine grace. However, that was not the case as we all know; Dante’s virtuous mind saw a guy who needed a little bit of help, and he ended up giving the mass exploiter the much needed invincibility to survive the fall. And so, with the accidental assistance, Dante is now stuck with Wackafella as his second documentary.

“Hello, Andy. I am Dante, and I’m here to save you.” Dante said with a monotone voice as he descended from the skies and into the pit.

“Am I supposed to know you? Only those I like can call me Andy, and I don’t like you.” said Wackafella.

“Ever heard of _Divina Comedia_? I’m that Dante.”

“Well I don’t.”

“ _Inferno_?”

“You mean my birthplace? Also how are you flying?”

“The same way you haven’t died yet. If you even read a single one of my books, you would also know that I should be dead.”

“So you’re the reason I’m not dead? I guess you could call me A.W. You’ll get the Andy pass if you take me out of here.”

“Well A.W, I guess you better hold tight to my hand then.”

Wackafella grasps tight to Dante’s hand as he floats up. It seems to be going well so far; Wackafella may have the greasy hands but Dante’s God-given powers counteract that. 

“Wait, are you my guardian angel? I didn’t know atheists had those.” said Wackafella.

“No, I’m just a documentarian who happened to sign a contract accidentally. I lost track of time and accidentally wrote your name on it.” said Dante.

“Is that sarcasm or--”

“Trust me, had there been any other person on my mind when that sinkhole started appearing, I would have been writing a very different novel and you would have a very different fate.”

“You mean I would be dead...”

“Yes, like everybody else in this cursed sinkhole.”

“Well, there was one person who survived other than me, but you can save them lat--”

“WAIT... Why didn’t you tell me this!?”

Well, there would be another person alive had Wackafella said it earlier. The guy who was holding up the cigarette lighter finally breathed his last breath, and the lighter dropped onto the oil below, causing a rapidly enveloping fire around them. The fire wraps around the walls, turning the drooping black tar into an untouchable inferno; the once viscous floor beneath them now looks like the gates of hell, and the smoke coming up top is slowly reaching the floating duo. This is not the worst part though, as the curdling oil below the fire has no place to go but up, it shoots into a blazing geyser, turning the sinkhole into an erupting volcano. This engulfs both of them, and kills Wackafella in the process. Dante survives, albeit covered in soot.

“Oh well, that’s the end of the story I guess. Seems like I might need a do-over, God.” says Dante as he’s cleaning himself, trying his best to act sorrowful.

“No, you stick with the plan. He’s most likely in Inferno-- No, he’s definitely in it.” says a reverbing voice from above.

“You really want me to make a story about him? I mean It was a fluke that he even survived that long.”

“Well, why don’t you try turning him virtuous? Augustine’s Confessions was another one of my favorites. In fact, why don’t you consult with St. Monica about this.”


End file.
